Archive of Our Own ^beta

After every mission there's a debrief with the whole 141 task force, and then they go their separate ways from whatever godforsaken hellhole they've ended up in this time. Laswell goes back to the US and her wife. Ale and Rudy head back to their base. Alex and Farah take a trip somewhere peaceful before they return home. Graves crawls back into whatever hole he crawled out of to be there in the first place. Nikolai disappears into a bottle of vodka, no one knows where. 

And the SAS boys go back to Credenhill. 

They have a routine once they're back. Shit, shower, shave, then off for a pint or six where they plan what they're going to do next.

They always have some time off after a mission so they take it in turns to pick a way to unwind. After one mission, Price chooses what they do, then after the next it's Ghost’s turn, then Gaz, and finally Soap. They can choose anything. The only rule is that they all have to be there and they all have to make an effort to join in. Team building, Price calls it. Torture, Ghost calls it. Fun, Gaz calls it. Fucking awesome, Soap calls it.

Price is predictable. He picks up a few cases of beer, loads up his 4x4 with gear, and takes them all fishing. It's calm and quiet. At least it is until Soap and Gaz get bored, drunk, and start falling about all over the place, at which point Ghost collars them both and shoves them back in the car.

Gaz is also predictable. He always wants to go clubbing. Puts on his best clothes, too much cologne, and goes out on the pull. The outcome of this is predictable too. Gaz gets laid and no one else does. Soap could, he gets enough interest, but he usually ends up too pissed to remember who he was chatting up, chats up their friend by mistake, and his nights usually end with a slap in the face for which he receives no sympathy. Price watches from the sidelines and Ghost can usually be found in a corner, wearing earplugs and holding a bottle of something very, very strong. 

If those two are predictable, Ghost is even more so. Laser Quest. Every time. The only time he ever relaxes is on a mission and off duty, Laser Quest is the closest he can get. He runs the day with the same military precision as he pulls off an op. He barks orders left right and centre and they have to book a private session because the one time they didn't, he made a bunch of teenagers cry. He still feels bad about it. A bit. He and Soap regularly come to blows over tactics and Price and Gaz end up being peacekeepers. He finds it relaxing. Everyone else finds it exhausting.

But Soap? Soap is very much not predictable. In fact, his choices are completely random. Sure, sometimes it's something simple like a night in a bar, or a comedy club, or a movie followed by a cheeky Nando’s. But other times it's ice skating (no one enjoys that one) or a rugby match (fine) or even a track day at a racing circuit (they're banned from ever doing that again because they got too competitive).

On this particular occasion, it's Soap's turn to choose and he's chosen, of all things, a karaoke night at the local pub.

“Christ,” Price mutters beneath his breath.

“Cool!” Gaz says, then looks at the other faces and decides that he should be quiet.

Ghost says nothing. Well, his voice says nothing. His eyes say everything. How he can convey so much emotion from under a mask is beyond anyone's comprehension but somehow he manages to say three different things. Agreed, to Price. Shut up, to Gaz. And what the fuck are you playing at, to Soap. He spends the next 24 hours sulking and Price has to bribe him out of the barracks with a good bottle of whisky and a promise that he can shout at the new recruits in the morning.

But the bribery works and Ghost might be sulking about the whole thing but he follows the others into the pub and orders himself a double whisky when Soap gets the first round in. They find a table and sit down. Price and Ghost sit with their backs to the wall, Gaz and Soap with their backs to the room. All of them have eyes on an exit route. 

There's already a queue for the karaoke machine, which doesn't bode well for Ghost escaping early. Price eyes him warily. Some people are already singing. Badly. Very, very badly.

“Aye,” Soap says, “but that's the whole point of karaoke.”

Gaz goes first. He has no shame and doesn't require copious amounts of alcohol before he gets up and makes a twat of himself. “Fuck this,” he says after less than five minutes. “I can do better than this shit.” He stands up and adds his name to the queue - and Price’s - and then goes to get another round in. 

He can't, in fact, do any better, because he cannot sing to save his life. He can dance, though, which is the only saving grace as he prances around the small stage singing Spice Up Your Life. He totally hams it up, catches the attention of some very pretty young ladies, and smugly returns to the table with several hastily scrawled phone numbers in his pocket, and lipstick on his cheek.

Price goes next, with the world weary air of a man who's seen too much. He definitely doesn't prance around the stage but he does strut. “When the feeling’s gone and you can't go on, it's tragedy,” he sings, in a high, very shaky falsetto.

“Only tragedy here is your fucking singing,” Gaz mutters, mostly to himself but Soap hears and sniggers. 

Ghost remains impassive; his eyes, the only part of his face visible above the medical mask he wears in public, betray no emotion whatsoever.

Price finishes his song and sits down, only to be chased off again to go to the bar. He comes back with another round of drinks. Pints for himself and Gaz, double whisky for Ghost, and a colourful cocktail for Soap, complete with a pineapple slice and several little umbrellas.

“The fuck’s that?” Ghost says, the only thing he's said since before they left the barracks.

“Pina colada,” Soap says, shoving the glass at him. “Try some.”

“No.”

“Wanker.”

“Tosser.”

“Prick.”

“Fuck off.”

Soap pouts. Ghost drinks his drink. Price rolls his eyes. Gaz has been distracted by someone pretty and isn't paying attention.

Five drinks later and Ghost is up on the stage which surprises everyone because no one saw him get up and put his name down in the queue. He's taken a bar stool with him and perches on the edge of it. There's to be no strutting or prancing or anything else resembling a performance.

Instead, there's just a strange sense of vulnerability as he gulps down his whisky, puts down his empty glass and starts to sing.

“We're talking away, I don't know what I'm to say. I'll say it anyway. Today is another day to find you.”

No one is expecting that. The song is slower than usual, he must have messed with the tempo on the machine, but that isn't what stops the room. 

His voice is soft. Whisky and gravel roughness but somehow soft, like a gentle caress from calloused hands.

And he's looking right at Soap.

“Take on me, take me on,” he sings. “I'll be gone in a day or two.”

Deep brown eyes meet bright blue and remain there, locked in that distant contact; neither willing to look away.

He finishes the song and stalks back to the table, his eyes still never leaving Soap's.

Soap gulps and breaks the eye contact without a word. He stands up so fast that his chair falls over, and then he's gone.

“Fucking hell,” Price mutters, then shouts, “Soap! Johnny! Get your arse back here!”

“Awkward,” Gaz mouths, trying very hard to make himself invisible.

Ghost displays absolutely no emotion whatsoever as he sits down. Whatever he's feeling, it isn't for public display. Still, he gives Price a grateful nod when he shoves a drink in front of him. If anything betrays his outward lack of emotion, it's the slight shake of his hand as he lifts his mask and raises the glass to his lips. He swallows it all down in one and puts the glass down just a little too heavily to be normal.

Price gives him a sympathetic look. Gaz wishes the ground would swallow him up.

And then another song starts. Recognisable from the first notes, Ghost freezes, ramrod stiff.

“We're no strangers to love,” Soap, group chat king of the memes, sings, his eyes locked on Ghost. “You know the rules and so do I.”

He's a terrible singer and it's a relief to everyone except Price and Gaz that he only gets as far as “never gonna run around or desert you”.

The reason he only gets that far, and the reason Price and Gaz aren't relieved that he stops, is because Ghost hauls him off the stage by the scruff of his neck. Soap squawks. Price and Gaz follow in hot pursuit because the pub bouncers are looking slightly concerned.

Ghost shoves Soap into the nearest wall. “Are you taking the fucking piss?” he growls.

No one can decide if Soap looks scared or horny but it's probably both. Price and Gaz form a barrier between them and the rest of the room, standing with their arms folded and a come on I dare you look in their eyes.

No one dares approach.

“Are you taking the fucking piss?” Ghost growls again.

“Naw,” Soap says, smirking. “I meant it, LT.”

“Fucking rickrolling me,” Ghost snaps.

And then Soap snaps too. He pushes Ghost back, slips to the side and out of his grip. “Fuck you, LT. I fucking meant it.” 

His fist now balled around nothing but empty air, Ghost stares at him like he's grown another head.

Soap stares back, not backing down an inch. “Yeah. You know how the rest of it goes, eh, Ghost? Fucking think about it.”

Then he's gone, slipping easily through the watching crowds and out of the door.

Ghost slowly lets his fist drop. Price and Gaz slowly back away.

Which is good, because Ghost can move fast for such a big man, at least when he needs to. And he needs to now. If Price and Gaz hadn't moved, they'd have been given the same disdainful treatment as he gives the table that's in his way. It goes flying, drinks and all, and then he's gone too. 

Price mutters an entire string of swear words. Gaz resignedly pulls out his wallet to help pay for the damage.

Ghost catches up to Soap outside. It's raining, cold and dark, but the car park is well lit and when he grabs Soap's shoulder and Soap spins around, the fury is clear on his face.

“Do you actually think I'd fucking do that?” he spits out. “Do you think I'd hit that fucking low?”

“No, I -” Ghost starts but Soap has gone again, striding off in search of the nearest bus stop or taxi or uber or maybe even an off licence so he can drown his sorrows.

“Soap,” Ghost calls after him. Then, when Soap doesn't so much as slow down, “John. Johnny!”

Soap still doesn't slow. Ghost follows him, matches his pace, keeps his distance, until, eventually, almost a mile down the road, Soap slows and allows Ghost to catch up to him.

“Johnny,” he says to Soap's back. His voice is raw and broken.

Then, finally, Soap turns around. “Simon,” he says, guarded and wary.

“Why that song?” 

“‘cause the words said what I wanted to and ‘cause I could play it off as a joke if you didn't mean yours and ‘cause it was fucking funny for everyone else.”

Ghost nods. “Sorry I was such a wanker.”

“You weren't a wanker.”

“No?”

“No. You were a fucking cunt.”

“Fair. Sorry I was such a fucking cunt.”

“Aye. You had me up against the wall, could have just got on with it and fucking kissed me.”

“Could do that now.”

Soap gives him the most unimpressed look he's ever seen. “Think the moment's gone, LT,” he says, then turns and walks away again.

Ghost stares at his retreating back and in that moment, he makes a decision. 

He tears off the mask, tosses it into the gutter, and starts to sing. “We're talking away, I don't know what I'm to say. I'll say it anyway.”

That's as far as he gets because Soap stops, turns around and before Ghost can react, his back is up against the nearest bus stop and he's pinned in place by Soap's hips, caged by Soap's arms. 

Soap gives him a smug little smirk. “So you do like me then, yeah, LT?”

Ghost gulps. “Yeah. Yeah, Johnny. I like you.”

“Good. ‘cause I like you too, Simon.” 

And then Soap kisses him. Right there, in the rain, against the bus stop, he kisses him. It's messy and sloppy and perfect. Ghost digs his fingers into Soap's waist to hold him close. Soap has no intention of going anywhere.

“My place or yours?” Ghost growls when finally they break for breath.

“You're buying me dinner first.”

Ghost huffs out a breath of laughter. “I'll get you a kebab on the way home.”

“Deal. But I want chips with it.”

“Fine.”

Soap gets his kebab. He doesn't get it to eat it, though, because Ghost pounces the second they get back to Soap's room.

He eats it cold in the morning and calls it breakfast.

Ghost calls it an offence to the name of food.

He's in too good a mood to shout at the new recruits. Price notices and smugly accepts a tenner from a reluctant Gaz.

They never go for a karaoke night again.

It was expensive, says Gaz.

It was a disaster, says Price.

It was fucking amazing, says Soap.

Ghost says nothing but his eyes agree with his boyfriend. 

At least they do this time. Maybe they won't always but it would be boring if they agreed on everything.